


just let me adore you

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff and Humor, M/M, POV Shiro (Voltron), post canonverse but you can trust me I promise, that means not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Shiro and Keith are simply living their best lives aboard the Atlas after the war. Then Pidge starts theorizing.Or: the 5+1 fic where Keith rejects a compliment from other people five times, and then finally accepts one from Shiro.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 136
Collections: Sheithlentines 2021





	just let me adore you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hymnaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hymnaria/gifts).



> this fic was written for hymnaria for the 2021 sheithlentines exchange! I hope you don't mind that I smashed a ton of the tropes you requested together....there were so many good ones I def couldnt choose! I had so much fun writing this fic, I really hope you enjoy it!

***

  1. Pidge



A terse click of the tongue. 

That’s the first warning. 

The mismatched clatter of space age lab equipment hitting the benchtop is the second. Shiro looks up from his datapad just at the same time that Keith looks over to catch his eye. And then, 

“Auuuuuuugh,” 

The sound is guttural. Soul deep frustration, manifested just as loud and grating as Pidge’s four foot eleven inch frame can manage. 

Shiro winces, still looking at Keith. He makes a face that more or less could be translated as,  _ So, is that our cue? _

Keith responds with a wary look in her direction. Both eyebrows lift enough to disappear under his bangs. A slight shake of the head. Though concerned, he votes to stay out of it. 

And that’s probably wise. 

But, Shiro has been acting as legendary-leader-slash-overall-paladin-life coach for far too long not to meddle. It’s tough to take off the ‘mentor’ hat once you’ve put it on, evidently. 

He clears his throat. “Pidge? Anything we can do to help?” 

Somehow the main thing that Pidge seemed to pick up from her post-war Olkarian internship is an impressive array of, well,  _ less than professional _ vocabulary. Her skill set might have been otherwise improved, but the swearing, that’s what Shiro notices the most. She lets out a string of expletives that the universal translation software either can’t or won’t auto-substitute. 

“Pidge. I’ve been there.” Shiro gets up from where he’s been working for the last couple of hours, semi-productively— the atmosphere in the Holt lab is the perfect blend of organized chaos for getting things done, usually— and joins her at the lab bench. The countertop is covered in a wide array of test tubes and beakers, a potted fern which may or may not be involved, a couple of notebooks, and Pidge’s favorite pen (whatever deity which governs space explorers so help you if you take it from her). A couple of holoscreens blink overhead, their data read-outs entirely incomprehensible. 

“Actually,” Shiro amends with a well meaning smile, “I haven’t been here, exactly, because I don’t know exactly where here is.” 

Keith, ever willing to second Shiro’s efforts, follows Shiro across the room to lend whatever support is needed. He stands at Pidge’s other side. Mouth pulled in interest, he bends close to examine the contents of the workbench, hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie. 

Shiro continues, “But. How about this?” The way that Pidge is pinching the bridge of her nose under her glasses is disheartening, but once Shiro sets his sights on giving a pep talk, there’s little in the universe that can dissuade him. Not broken ribs or extraterrestrial monsters or ancient malevolent, mind controlling space witches. Certainly not this. “What about taking a break? Keith and I can help you, er, tidy up. We’ve been at this awhile; we could all use a quick change of scenery. And then you’ll come back to it with fresh eyes later on.” 

“No offense, Shiro.” Pidge plops down from the stool where she’s been sitting. There’s a large cabinet next to her work area. She wrenches open the door and takes out a rock of  _ something _ that’s almost as big as she is. It’s flat, like a slab, with markings on the top. It must be heavy, judging by how she lurches back over to her workstation with it in her arms. (Alarmingly, the rock is emitting some kind of light. And also...pulsing? Should she be wearing gloves?) “But you have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“That’s fair,” Shiro agrees. “What I  _ do _ know is—” 

“Is it supposed to do that?” Keith interrupts. 

The glowy, pulsating whatever-it-is rock has abruptly changed from fluorescent blue to ultraviolet. 

Pidge swears again. (The Olkarians really outdid themselves with her cultural competency training.) And then she’s scrambling: “I knew it! Okay, this is fine. Stay calm.” She shoves a notebook out of the way— Keith just barely manages to catch a glass beaker before it also topples to the ground— and begins typing furiously on her laptop, muttering under her breath. Keith sets the stray equipment back down on another table with a grimace. 

“Since you’re here,” Pidge interrupts herself, “Make yourself useful. Shiro: lights. Turn them off. Keith, take this.” 

Having absolutely no idea where this is going, but more than willing to come along for the ride, Shiro blinks. “Atlas, could you lower the overhead lights to fifty percent?” 

“Thirty,” Pidge barks, searching through a drawer underneath the lab bench. She pulls out a complicated apparatus that looks to be a cross between a turkey baster and a label maker and one of those plastic instruments that kids learn to play in elementary school. A recorder. Also it has a spin-y wheel at the top with a digital readout. This, she gives to Keith. 

“Thirty,” Shiro says, good natured about it. The Atlas obliges. 

“Uh.” Keith is holding the device out in front of him, clearly uncomfortable. He looks to the side at Shiro for help. 

Shiro shakes his head and holds up his hands, like,  _ Don’t look at me, I just fly the ship.  _

“It’s a pipette. More high tech than the ones you used in chemistry class, but I’m sure you’ve seen them before.” Pidge makes a motion like all of this should be obvious. 

“I don’t think I passed chemistry,” Keith mutters.

“I passed it enough for all of us,” Pidge says. “This part is normally Hunk’s job, but since he’s off making nice with the Belgloa representatives this movement, you two will have to help.” 

“Okay. Just tell us what to do.” Shiro says. Keith seems to be committed to figuring out the pipette instrument, except for he’s holding it like a dagger. Clearly preparing to use it to defend them from the glowing rock. 

From somewhere, Pidge produces a tray of vials, each one containing a small amount of liquid. The aura they give off is markedly familiar— it’s distilled quintessence. Highly concentrated. The label on the side says it’s both radioactive and a biohazard. Shiro inwardly sighs. 

“Off the record, Pidge: how many  _ other _ things have you brought onto my ship unauthorized? Or that could potentially kill us?” Shiro asks. “Just a rough estimate.” 

Rolling her eyes, Pidge pointedly does  _ not _ answer Shiro. Instead she changes the way Keith is holding the pipette and starts explaining. “Here, here, and here, see the pattern?” She points to the separate areas on the rock slab. “You have to be fast, Keith, once I start this I don’t have much time. This is important.” 

“Got it.” A look of determination settles over Keith’s features. His shoulders settle, his breath evens— it’s as if he’s about to go into battle. 

“Good. The decay coefficient is indeterminate, but, basically, the data predicts we’ll have less than a couple of doboshes before this sample is inert. Shiro, hold this like this.” She gives Shiro something that looks like a remote control for a television, only it’s not. “You just have to push the button when I say go,” 

“I think I can handle that,” Shiro says. Although he’s still at a loss as to what exactly they’re doing here. 

“Go!” Pidge pulls a set of goggles over her eyes. 

Keith takes off like a shot, movement fluid as he pulls liquid from the tubes into the instrument and then deposits it methodically into each of the narrow spaces outlined on the glow-y rock slab. He’s intensely focused on the task, almost surgical in his precision. There are 24 vials and 24 slots. Once he gets the first couple done, he seems to get the hang of it, and only gets smoother and faster from there. 

As the liquid is deposited, there’s a flash and then a ‘pop’ of sound following each sample. Pidge is collecting some kind of data with yet another instrument. Shiro pushes the button on his remote as directed. 

It’s a tense couple of minutes. Shiro watches the way the steely concentration settles over Keith’s features. The low light somehow only makes the devastating angle of his features more pronounced. His mouth is set; the curve of his jaw and the bow of his lips as he focuses is nothing short of beautiful. 

Beautiful...in a completely platonic way, right? Shiro catches himself. Because Keith is his best friend, and thinks of him as family of some sort, so any other kind of ‘beautiful’ would be inappropriate, right? Right. 

Shiro pushes the button the way that Pidge directs. And if he also happens to watch Keith— the way his canines press ever-so-slightly into his lower lip as he concentrates, the sweet downcast of his eyes, the smudge of lashes over his cheeks, the tight, precise movements of his hands…

...well. Thankfully, Shiro’s observations won’t be included in the data readout. 

When Keith finishes with the last vial, and the last ‘pop’ sounds off, Pidge lets out a whoop. It startles both Shiro and Keith. 

“Keith!” She shouts. 

Keith shakes the hair out of his eyes and looks mildly alarmed. “What? Did I do something wrong?” 

“Look at this!” She turns to Shiro, “Shiro, the full lights are okay again, thanks,” and back to Keith. She practically jumping with joy. “ Look at this!!” 

The three of them look at the holoscreen above the sample. It’s some kind of complex 3D rendered chart. It almost looks like the dips and peaks of a EKG, except for far more convoluted. 

“Is that...good?” Keith asks. 

“I have to admit, I have no idea what I’m looking at.” Shiro tells them after he adjusts the lights again. He sets a hand on Keith’s back, just between his shoulder blades, leaning close to him as they both examine the screen. 

“This is!” Pidge is now typing with more gusto than she has been all afternoon. “This is the best run we’ve had so far! It’s all thanks to you Keith!” 

Shiro can feel Keith stiffen. 

“Uh,” a short unnatural laugh that doesn’t sound like Keith at all. “I just put the stuff in the spots like you said. But, um, glad I could help?” 

“No, no,” Pidge’s nose is almost touching the laptop screen. “Your accuracy was pinpoint perfect! I’ve never gotten samples this clean. Quintessence manipulation is notoriously tricky.” She turns to them. “Keith you must have extremely steady hands. Either that, or you’re just really innately skilled at this. Or both? Probably both. You made that look easy and, objectively, it isn’t.” 

Those steady hands get shoved once more into the front pocket of the hoodie Keith has on. “C-cool.” He looks up at Shiro. “I’m, uh. I’ll catch you for supper later, okay, Shiro?” 

And, without any other explanation, he walks out of the lab. 

Shiro frowns. Before coming over to help Pidge, he and Keith were collaborating on a training initiative for some of the new recruits. They weren’t exactly finished. And Keith’s datapad is still on the table next to the sofa where they were working. 

“What was that all about?” Shiro wonders. 

“Cataphoresic spectroscopy.” Pidge answers, still grinning. “It has to do with the drift velocity of the sample’s innate quintessence. Basically—” 

“I meant the conversation with Keith.” Shiro interrupts, and then feels bad about it. “Sorry Pidge, but I know whatever this is” he motions to the screens with all their charts, “Is a little over my head.” 

“Oh.” Pidge might look disappointed, but not surprised. “His weird reaction? Probably just because I complimented him. You know Keith hates that.” 

“What?” That can’t be true. “I compliment Keith all the time.” 

“Do you though?” Pidge rolls her eyes and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Plus, it’s probably different when you do it. You guys are basically married.” 

The noise that Shiro makes is not that of a dignified captain of a semi-sentient alien warship. “W-what?! Me and Keith? Pidge, I don’t—” 

There’s the slight sound of air compression and then the door to the lab slides open again. Shiro looks from where they’re standing, but it’s not Keith returning. It’s Matt. 

“Hiya guys,” he enters the room. Somehow, inexplicably, with an enormous plastic barrel of cheese balls under one arm. 

(Which, like the glowy rock and deadly vials, are also unauthorized, by the way. The Garrison-Coalition leaders have gone to great lengths to ensure that the crew is eating a balanced diet while in deep space. The nutrition plan does not include cheese balls.) 

(Just for the record.)

(Also, they are probably as much of a biohazard as the quintessence.) 

“Matt! Matt!” Pidge jumps and motions for him to join them. “Look at this sample we just managed to collect!” 

“Oh didja?” Elbow deep in the barrel, Matt looks over the data. He whistles. “Katie! This is really something!” He takes his hand out, licks some neon orange dust from his fingers, and then pokes the screen. “Ninety two percent of substrate bound to target? Nice!!” 

“I know!” 

“It’s thanks to Keith,” Shiro tells him. Giving credit where credit is due. 

“Keith?” Matt sways, looking behind Shiro as if Keith will be hidden by him. “Where is he?” 

“He got all Keith-y and weird when I complimented him about the data,” Pidge explains, moving the numbers from the read-out into a complicated looking chart. “Then he left.” 

“Ah, yeah.” Matt shoves a cheese ball in his mouth and crunches. “Sounds about right.” 

“What? It’s not like this is something that happens all the time.” Shiro narrows his eyes. 

“Shirogane,” Matt makes a face that looks eerily similar to Pidge’s I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-explain-this-to-you-people face. “Maybe you just haven’t noticed since you and Keith are in a relationship, but it pretty much is standard. The dude can’t take a compliment to save his life.” 

“A relationship?” Shiro sputters, 

Pidge raises her hand, without looking up from the screen. “That’s what I said!” 

Matt gives her a high five. 

“Hey. I have an idea.” 

Shiro doesn’t like the sound of that. The last time that Matt ‘had an idea,’ the two of them somehow ended up in a strip club outside of Tucson. And somehow, for some reason, Matt had food poisoning. Shiro ended up asking one of the dancers (her name was Shelly, and she was a real sweetheart) where the nearest hospital was— because both of their phones were dead. It was a terrible night. 

“Matt.” 

“Shirogane,  _ sir _ !” Matt gives him a sloppy salute. With his orange fingers. “Listen. It’s simple. Just conduct an experiment.” 

Pidge stops what she’s doing and turns around. 

(Oh, great,) 

“What kind of experiment?” She asks. 

Matt hops up on the counter. Uses the pipette from before to suction a cheeseball and then deposits it into his mouth. Crunches and talks at the same time: “Like, make people compliment Keith. Gauge his reaction. Shiro, you’d be the control.” 

“What’s our hypothesis?” Pidge asks

At the same time that Shiro says, “We are not experimenting on Keith,” 

“Mmmm.” Matt strokes his chin. With his orange fingers. “Most likely that Keith does not respond well to praise. It makes him uncomfortable. It’s a little sad, actually. Like the guy just can’t parse why someone would be nice to him. Perhaps due to his socialization as a child. Or lack thereof. Objectively, he deflects. Usually just by removing himself from the situation. Sometimes with aggression, though usually only if cornered.” 

“That’s true.” Pidge agrees, nodding. For some reason, she’s writing things down in a notebook. 

“Pidge,” Shiro says, stern, “No,” 

“But with Shiro.” Matt continues. “He’s conflicted. He likes the praise. Probably because they’re in  _ lo~ove _ ,” 

Shiro feels his entire face heat, “Matt! That’s,” 

“But he’s still awkward about it. He doesn’t know what to do. He still deflects. It’d be interesting to see,” Matt decides, “What he would do if he couldn’t deflect?” 

“Right,” Pidge agrees. “We’ll have to set up each scenario just exactly right.” 

“We will not!” Shiro decides. The Holt siblings are menances. This has to end now. “First of all, Keith is perfectly capable of handling whatever the universe throws at him. I would know. That includes compliments, I’m sure. Second of all, Keith and I are close friends, but that’s it. I don’t know where both of you are getting this idea that we’re...more.” 

Matt tilts his head. 

Pidge pushes the glasses up her nose. 

“Are we clear?” 

Pidge slides a comm unit over to Shiro. 

Matt says: “Text him right now. Tell him that he looked good in your sweatshirt.” 

Wait. Was that  _ Shiro’s _ sweatshirt that Keith was wearing? 

It was the gray one...with the logo from Shiro’s high school across it. Oh. 

“I lent it to him before the Kerberos launch,” Shiro trails off, remembering. Back then, Keith was so small that he was absolutely swimming in Shiro’s large sweatshirt. But it made him look relaxed and happy, and Shiro knew that Keith didn’t have a lot of clothes to begin with, having moved directly from the foster system into the military. And certainly not many clothes in which he was comfortable. Shiro was more than willing to ‘forget’ about ever asking for it back. 

Nowadays, Keith has worn the sweatshirt so often around the ship— and how did it get all the way up here? The Atlas isn’t even in the same galaxy as the Garrison, not to mention all the time that’s passed— that Shiro forgot that it was even his hoodie to begin with. It just looks natural on him.

Nowadays, Keith has the shoulders to fill it out, and then some. He’s still compact, but Shiro knows well how strong Keith is. The muscle that he’s put on, his trim waist. His long legs…

...

Back to the sweatshirt. 

“This is ridiculous,” Shiro mutters. “You are both ridiculous.” He takes the proffered comm and types out a quick message. 

>>> I’m glad you’re still getting use out of that old sweatshirt. It looks good on you, Keith 

“See?” Shiro hits send and turns the comm around. 

“Oh we see,” Pidge grins. 

“Yepppp,” Matt echoes. 

There’s a blinking ellipse; Keith is typing. It goes away. It comes back. It blinks. And then: 

<<<I should be able to have the report done before supper 

<<<if you want to meet to go over it later just let me know

Shiro frowns. 

The Holt siblings have identical shit-eating grins. 

“So. You’ll be the control.” Matt repeats. He wheels over a whiteboard from one side of the lab. Pidge tosses him a dry-erase marker. 

Shiro decides that, while convenient, using the Holt lab as a workspace is not without consequences. 

  
  
  
  


  1. Acxa



The next day, 

The doors to the training deck unlock with a press of Shiro’s hand over the keypad. Just as he does every morning, he secures them into their unlocked position for the day. There’s a second set of doors on the upper level; he climbs the stairs and unlocks these too. It’s very early morning now— not quite five am, according to the Atlas’ time clock— but it won’t be much longer before crew members start arriving for training or their early morning workout. 

The entire process with the unlocking and the doors could be automated, of course. But Shiro used to be the one to open the gym at the Garrison too, a lifetime ago, and the old routine is comforting. He bypasses the shadows of the weight equipment and the space age treadmills, the mats for sparring, the door to the target range and weapons storage. Past all this, there’s a closed off room for meditation. 

Water trickles down the walls in a soothing non-rhythm and the lighting is low, slowly seeping in as if from underneath the edges of the room. As he sits, and breathes, and focuses, the lighting will slowly rise and the streams of water will still. Like a sunrise over a calm lake. It’s all hologram, and some would even argue, cliché, but whatever works, right?

Shiro steadies himself in the center of the room, beginning with full inhale. His shoulders fall with the exhale and he settles himself into a position that’s purposeful but not overtly uncomfortable. He breathes at a steady pace. He can feel the Atlas breath with him, in her own indescribable way. In. And out. 

Strong and constant. 

Not unlike someone else in his life. 

(But that’s neither here nor there. And definitely not what he’s meant to be thinking about during the early morning hours that he purposefully sets aside for mindfulness.)

Shiro finishes his meditation (read: impromptu contemplation of the most precious and also, in some ways, most frustrating, relationship of his life). From there he slips into morning stretches. Nothing dramatic— just enough to get the blood flowing back into his toes after sitting cross-legged for so long. 

Thus limbered, centered, and ready for the day, Shiro exits the side room and heads back to the main gym. Keith will be here soon. Regardless of whatever else is on their agenda, it’s their routine to meet for a morning workout. 

There’s a few crew members gathered near the front of the room. Shiro smiles. It seems that Keith got here a little  _ too _ early. He’s dressed for their workout, the dark hair on his calves curling over mismatched tube socks. Shorts that stop at mid-thigh— short enough to see where the hair gets finer on his thighs. A loose fitting, sleeveless tank top means that his shoulders and upper arms are on full display. His hair— he’s wearing it longer these days— is pulled back into a ponytail. Shiro wonders if he’ll start to braid it soon, like some of the senior Blades do. 

He watches as Keith reviews some basic techniques with the less experienced crew. They must have approached him (that is, cornered him) as soon as Keith walked in the door unoccupied. 

Though Keith would never guess it, Shiro knows for a fact that Keith's attention is highly sought after. The younger crew members find him a bit aloof— not that Keith is trying to be anything but friendly. It’s just...his own brand of friendly. Shiro has definitely overheard conversations and even awe about sharing a training deck with the infamous leader of the Blade of Mamora, and the former Black Paladin. Keith deserves every accolade. In Shiro’s opinion, they  _ are _ lucky to have him in training. Keith is an excellent teacher— he’s straightforward and holds nothing back, but he’s never cruel with critique. And he’s endlessly patient. 

Hawkins, an aspiring pilot, gets tripped up as she’s sparring with Ledrick, an engineer. Keith takes the time to correct her stance, carefully shifting her legs and arms into something much more appropriate. 

Shiro, still unnoticed by Keith, does his best to suppress a laugh. The poor girl is beet red and obviously starstruck, but Keith hasn’t realized. It’s likely he’d  _ never _ realize— Keith’s always been slow about things like that. Half the ship could be in love with him, and actually, they probably are, but Keith wouldn’t know. He’s serious, gesturing in tight, careful movements to explain something to Hawkins. The basics are there, but need refinement. Close at her side, Keith gently moves her arm to an attacking position— he moves behind her, guiding her fist, demonstrating the flow of the movement as he does it with her. His hand drifts from her shoulder, then, realizing that her body is too open, touches her hip, showing her the correct angle. Keith is serious about the technique as he’s explaining it, watching her expression carefully from behind her, over her shoulder. He wants to make sure she understands. Hawkins looks like she’s going to pass out; Shiro would wager that it’s more to do with the teacher than the lesson.

He chuckles. 

“You’re laughing? I’m surprised.” 

Shiro nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden commentary. (So much for his carefully cultivated inner calm.) He didn’t hear her approach, but that’s high ranking alien spies for you. He thinks that he manages to keep a straight face despite the shock: “Good morning, Acxa.” 

She certainly doesn’t look surprised. Instead, she glances meaningfully at him and then back to Keith. 

“I’m afraid that it’s a little too early for me to figure this one out,” Shiro gives up on trying to decipher the meaning of her look.

“I would have taken you for the jealous type, Captain.” 

“Jealous?” Shiro doesn’t follow. “Of...what exactly?” 

Acxa’s lips purse. “Your mate is training rather closely with them. Closer than necessary, some might say.” 

“My…mate?! Keith?!” Shiro feels his voice rise and clears his throat. Also, ignores the way his ears are burning. “Acxa, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but,” 

“You would deny that you two are a mated pair? Interesting.” She blinks, slowly. 

“I. Well...I mean—” Shiro falters.  _ Deny _ seems like a pretty strong word. Then again, so does ‘mate.’ He raises a hand in what is hopefully the universal sign of a truce. “I don’t fault you for coming to that conclusion. Just yesterday,” Shiro laughs, a short and awkward thing, “I had a similar conversation with Pidge. And then she and her brother had this long discussion about Keith and me, and compliments, and,” realizing how inappropriate and rambling all this is, Shiro abruptly cuts himself off. He laughs again, just as forced. 

“Compliments?” Acxa’s expression remains impassive. She crosses her arms. “Such as?” 

Faltering, Shiro gives the briefest of summaries. 

“Interesting.” Acxa says again. 

That’s all the warning that Shiro gets. 

The next thing he knows, Acxa is walking towards Keith and the group of students. 

“Black Paladin Keith!” She calls out. 

“Just ‘Keith’ is fine, Acxa,” Keith responds automatically. He looks up and sees Shiro trailing close behind her. His whole face lights up. Shiro has the thought that he will never get tired of the way Keith says his name: “Shiro! Good morning!! I was—”

“Your dedication to your mother’s organization, even in the face of many personal challenges, is admirable.” Acxa tells Keith. Her voice is clear, carrying throughout the gym. 

The group of cadets disperses. Shiro does not fault any of them. If anything, he gives his crew credit for snap decision making. (Where Keith is ‘aloof,’ Acxa is downright intimidating.) 

Keith’s brow furrows. “Huh?” 

“Additionally, you have great skill with both your blade, and in hand-to-hand combat. There are few whom I have found to be my match. I am honored to fight at your side.” 

Keith freezes. Shiro can see the flush rise up on his chest. Over his cheeks. “Oh. Cool. I. Uh.” 

Acxa is relentless: “I would also like to mention how impressive your piloting skills are. In the Altean lions, naturally, but in Terran and Galran-made craft as well. Your flying is a marvel to behold.” 

“W-what's going on?” Keith takes a step back and gives the exit a quick glance before sending Shiro a panicked look. His hands curl into loose fists at his side. 

She takes a step closer. “Though you are short for a Galran, I find you very attractive.” 

"I have to...to. Go do stuff!" Keith wheezes. And bolts for the door. 

Shiro pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too early for this. “Was that really necessary?” 

Acxa lifts her brows, cool. “Your mate,” she says, gesturing toward the side door that Keith just ran through. The smile on her lips is slight, but Shiro would swear that she’s laughing at him. 

  
  
  
  


  1. Rebi Strestfel, a television host for a late night talk show on planet Odexal 



Shiro is thankful that they aren’t making him wear a tie. It’s been a long time since he watched late night television on Earth, but it seems like a lot of the guests on talk shows wore ties. Though his dress blues aren’t comfortable, they are, at least, familiar. And they’ve already been modified to accommodate his arm port. No tie. Shiro will take it as a victory. 

He crosses his legs. The overhead lights are hot enough that he can feel the sweat dripping down his back. The sofa on set is lumpy— why is it lumpy? But, really. It’s fine. Shiro, by now, is accustomed to all kinds of public appearances on all kinds of planets. However. A late night talk show? This is a new one. The Atlas is hovering some three thousand kilometers above the planet’s surface, manned by a skeleton crew. Most everyone else has shore leave. If the hallway-gossip buzz is anything to go by, his crew is very excited about the leave. The planet Odexal is well known for its beautiful oceans and lavish entertainment industry. Casinos and celebrities and concerts and clubs. Throughout even the height of Zarkon’s Empire, this planet system remained untouched by Galran occupation. 

So, to the inhabitants of this planet, Voltron is more of a Fun Little Space Story than the harrowing experience that Shiro endured. But even here, in this sector, the Coalition is spreading. A little positive propaganda never hurts. Hence, the talk show. 

The set of the show is not all that different from the bridge of a ship, Shiro thinks. He’s trying to stay out of the way. Everyone has a job to do, and ultimately they are working together, but from the outside looking in, it’s chaos. Amidst the Odexalians running back and forth, Shiro leans back, craning his neck to see backstage. He’s trying to see if Keith is almost ready. 

Shiro hasn’t been able to catch Keith alone since the unfortunate incident on the training deck this morning. Their workout would have been cut short anyways— not long after Keith left, there was an issue with the liquid nitrogen tanks on deck M, and that problem took up most of Shiro’s morning. After he got that sorted out, it was time to take the shuttles down planetside. 

From there, various meetings with some of the planet’s leaders. Typical diplomacy. 

And now. This. 

(At least Shiro and Keith got off more easily than Allura. She had to do an all day photoshoot with one of the planet’s most vogue photographers. It didn’t sound bad— until Shiro heard that the last aliens whom the photographer shot were nearly mauled by one of the wild animals that the photographer insisted on including in the shoot. Getting dressed to the nines in alien designer wear, being looked at for twelve hours, and then having to fend off an alien bear, all for the sake of fashion? Believe it or not, that is not Shiro’s idea of a good time.) 

(Coran is with her. He’s probably loving it. Lance, too.) 

From backstage, Shiro hears Keith’s voice before he sees him:

“Don’t laugh.” 

“I would never,” Shiro says, holding up a hand, now looking straight ahead. “Scout’s honor.” 

Keith snorts. He jumps over the back of the couch and settles in next to Shiro, knocking their shoulders together. “Yeah....you’re no boy scout, Shiro.” 

Shiro snickers. “Shhh. Most people don’t know that— Keith.” He stops mid-sentence. “Oh.” 

Keith’s hair is gently swept back off his forehead, revealing the delicate curve of his widow’s peak, the bold arch of his brow. The angle of his cheekbones, the pretty cut of his jaw. More than anything, with his bangs out of the way, his eyes are on full display. 

He looks up at Shiro, gaze dark and solemn. 

Shiro realizes that he’s staring at the same time that his heart remembers to beat in its normal rhythm. “I-uh, Keith,” 

Keith’s mouth twitches. “You promised not to laugh.” He ducks his head, knocking their shoulders together again. 

“No, Keith. It’s not that.” Shiro tries. “You just,” 

“Alright people, we’re back in five!” Someone shouts from the other side of the room. The chaos intensifies. 

“You’re the Voltron group?” Rebi Strestfel, the host of the show, sits down at the desk next to the sofa where Shiro and Keith are sitting. His blue hair is coiffed in a complicated bouffant style that frames the green markings on his face, and his clothes look expensive, from his fitted suit all the way down to his wingtip shoes. He gives Keith and Shiro an unimpressed look before taking a small towel off from where it’s draped around his neck. He tosses it to the side of the set. One of the many people swarming around darts forward to pick it up. “Hair and makeup really did a bang up job, huh?” He says, though it’s not clear whether it’s to them or just in general. 

Just before they start rolling, there’s a person giving direction for how Shiro is supposed to be sitting. “Camera one, two, three, and four,” they tell him, pointing in various directions. “Just look at Mr. Strestfel, act like the cameras aren’t there.” 

“Got it,” Shiro confirms. At his side, Keith is looking directly into the lens of the nearest camera. 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s knee, leaning in. “Okay, now I’m a little nervous,” he admits in a whisper, close to his ear. 

“Don’t worry, Shiro.” Keith gives him the smallest smile. With his hair back, his eyes are all storm: smoked gray, dark violet, blueblack. Shiro has seen helix nebulae less nuanced, less breathtaking. And Keith is focused so sweetly on Shiro’s face. Almost shy, he touches the back of Shiro’s hand where it’s resting on his knee. 

Shiro swallows down the butterflies. They’re not from the cameras, if he’s being honest. 

“Annnnd welcome back,” Rebi says, energy completely changed. “We’ve got a real treat for you tonight folks! All the way from planet Erath, two of the five guys who drove that big robot we keep hearing about. Let’s give a warm welcome to tonight’s guests, Takashi Shirogane and Keith Kogane of Voltron fame!!” 

The live audience erupts into applause, complete with wolf whistles. Shiro wonders if they’re being paid for this, or if Odexalians are simply easily excitable. 

“ _ Erath,” _ Keith mouths under his breath. He looks to the side, brows pulled in confusion. “ _ E-rath?” _

“It’s a pleasure, Rebi,” Shiro says, all professionalism. 

“So lemme get this straight, you two saved the universe?” 

(More cheering from the audience.)

“And each other,” Keith confirms. 

(The audience is pounding their feet on the floor and absolutely screaming.) 

(Shiro feels like this is going to be a long night.)

“Takashi,” Rebi continues, “Can I call you Takashi?” 

“Most people call me Shiro,” Shiro states with a smile. “Or the Black Paladin, though, technically, at the end, that was Keith’s role. Or they call me Captain.” He pauses. “Or Admiral.” 

“Ooooh,” Rebi leans into the microphone, “I like a man with a title. Or three.” The Odexalians are mostly humanoid, but there’s a definite purr to his tone. The audience goes wild. 

Next to Shiro on the couch, Keith shifts. 

Shiro leans a little closer to Keith. Keith must be nervous in front of all these people. His hand is still on Keith’s leg. He gives Keith’s knee another squeeze. “Well, the last one came with the ship, if I’m being honest.” He goes into a bit of detail about the Atlas, and the rest of the fleet. The Atlas is the first of her kind, for Earth. He wants to represent his planet well. They are supposed to be here to talk about the peaceful motives of the Coaltion, afterall. 

Rebi doesn’t ask any followup questions about the Coalition, though. 

“Wow, Admiral,” there’s that purr again, “Sounds like you keep yourself mighty busy up there. Let me know if this is too personal, but here on  _ Late, Late Night with Rebi Strestfel _ , we like to ask the hard-hitting questions: with all that going on, how do you have time for Mrs. Admiral?” 

Keith clears his throat. The lights are hot so Shiro understands why he might be getting thirsty. 

Shiro laughs, good-natured, in response to Rebi’s question. This isn’t exactly like the interviews he did before the Kerberos launch, but it is bringing up memories. “It’s the kind of work I love to do, Rebi. I’ve always wanted to push the boundaries of space travel, explore the stars. My career has already exceeded my every expectation. I’m just happy to be here. As for being busy, you know, Keith here has a lot more on his plate than I do. With his duties on the Atlas, his efforts on Daibazaal to rebuild, and his humanitarian work with the Blade, I’m constantly impressed.” 

Keith makes a noise like he’s clearing his throat. Again. He leans forward, slightly, as if speaking into a mic, “I don’t mind. I like it.” 

Rebi blinks, shuffling through his cue cards. There’s a slight pause, and then, “Wow, that is impressive. But, Takashi, I’ve heard that your career in space didn’t have the most glamorous beginning. Is it true you were held captive on one of the Galran prison hubs for more than a year?” 

(The audience gives a hearty boo at the idea of genocidal internment ships. Shiro supposes that he appreciates the support.) 

Shiro knows that his smile gets tighter, but it doesn’t falter. He was expecting this question, or something similar. “Yes, and that’s part of the reason why the Coalition has focused so much of our efforts on aiding those misplaced and traumatized by the empire. Much of our humanitarian efforts are being spearheaded by The Blades of Marmora, of which, Keith is the leader. The damage that Zarkon inflicted during his reign is near incalculable— and, in so many ways, the Galran citizens themselves were also victims. I’m so proud of Keith. Not only did he save me, but now he’s saving his heritage. His people.” 

Keith coughs. “Yeah,” he fiddles with the ends of his hair, sits up straighter. He nods. “Yes.” 

Rebi purses his lips. One of his blue brows twitches. 

On one of the numerous screens flashes a countdown. The producer— at least Shiro thinks they are a producer, they have a clipboard and look more stressed than everyone else on set— waves some kind of signal at Rebi from behind camera one.

“Well folks, we’ll be back in five with more from the Voltron expedition. Don’t touch that dial!” 

The live show cuts to commercials and Rebi leans back in his chair with a sigh. He swings one of his arms over his head, raising a hand. One of the assistants brings him a bottle of water. He takes it, hands it back to the person for them to open it for him, and then snatches it out of their grasp and takes a long draught. And then he says: 

“What a goddamn shitshow this is turning out to be,” he uncrosses his legs and stands up to shout: “Margaret— you! Yeah you, who do you think I’m pointing to, dumbshit, the wall?— go call Margaret. I want tomorrow’s guest list. Now. I’m not doing this ‘defenders of the universe’ clusterfuck again.” 

He sits back down only to snap at one of the other people on set and demand something else. 

“Excuse me?” Shiro asks. He gives the young set-hand an apologetic look but they’ve already scurried off to find Margaret; Shiro frowns. No one deserves to be talked to that way. He turns to Rebi: “Is there a problem?” 

“Besides the fact that he’s a dick?” Keith mutters at his side. 

Rebi gives Shiro a nasty look, all three of his eyes narrowed as if in disgust. “You heard me. The numbers on this are going to be in the fucking toilet. I’ll do my best to carry you for the second half too, but,  _ Jesus Christ. _ You have no style, Takashi. The whole ‘pure, nice guy’ energy? It’s not what we do here.” 

“I wasn’t aware that  _ style _ was such a hard and fast prerequisite for your show.” Shiro stands. Maybe they should have fought the alien-fashion-bears with Allura after all. They say that all publicity is good publicity, but clearly this wasn’t the right choice. “Seeing as we don’t fit the bill, we’ll leave.” 

Rebi isn’t impressed. It’s likely that, due to the kinds of celebrities he usually has on as guests, there’s a lot of theatrics involved. Self-absorbed dramatics. He responds with a dismissive wave. “For starters, we were supposed to be talking about the Voltron, or whatever the fuck, but you keep redirecting to your boytoy. It’s not good television, sweetheart,” 

“My boytoy?” Shiro repeats, his tone icy. Keith is standing behind him. 

One of the girls from hair and makeup jumps on the set. Rebi tilts his head, letting her touch up the lime green foundation at his temples. “Boyfriend? That charming little thing you can’t keep your hands off of. Yeah, he’s a hot piece of ass, but really? I—”

Shiro steps forward. The desk on set looks heavy, but it’s actually surprisingly light. He discovers as much as he pushes it to the side. It clatters off the stage with very little effort. The makeup artist makes a quick exit. Vaguely, Shiro hears at least two people call for security. “Rebi. Mr. Strestfel. Change of plans. We’re leaving, just as soon as we get an apology. From you.” His arm activates of its own accord, blue light spinning a threat around his wrist. “In fact,” 

“Oh, puh-lease,” Rebi rolls his eyes. He withdraws what appears to be a gun from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, 

Keith is a blur at Shiro’s right side. Before anyone else has a chance to move, he lands a swift hit to Rebi Stresfel’s jaw. The punch— besides knocking the alien clean out of his chair and sending him flying no small distance away— echoes throughout the now silent set. 

“Piece of ass, my ass,” Keith scoffs. He shakes out his hand and turns to Shiro. “C’mon,” he directs with a jut of his chin, “The shuttle has a three dobosh start up sequence, at least.” 

He shucks off the collar-mic and, after turning once more to give Rebi the bird, starts off at a determined clip towards the back door of the studio. 

Shiro gives the producer a wave—it’s not their fault, but this will no doubt be making their day worse— and follows Keith outside. Their private shuttle does have a three dobosh start up sequence, but, because Keith is Keith, he gets her off the ground in two. 

When they’ve breached the atmosphere, Keith turns to him, grinning. Some of his hair has come undone, and it’s falling into his face. He’s flushed and breathless, though probably more from the excitement following their getaway than the actual fight. “So Shiro, d’you think ‘Late, Late Night with Rebi Strestfel’ will be asking us for a follow-up interview?” 

Shiro snorts. He leans over from the co-pilot’s seat to flick a hand through Keith’s bangs. The smooth strands fall out of style, and now Keith’s hair is back the way it usually is. Shiro resists the urge to linger— Keith’s hair is soft and his eyes flutter shut at Shiro’s touch. Instead, Shiro touches Keith’s shoulder and offers him a rueful smile. “I apologize, Keith. I should have done more research on the type of show we were visiting.” 

Keith adjusts their headings. They weren’t meant to rendezvous with the Atlas for another few hours, so the journey back will take a bit of time in this low impact shuttle. He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, Shiro.” His eyes flick towards Shiro’s prosthetic, now dormant again. “If anything you should be worried about your reputation. A big name leader like you can’t go around attacking talk show hosts, no matter how skeevy.” 

“Says the guy who has an entire planet calling him a prince.” Shiro comments, dry. Keith is  _ adored _ on Daibazaal. 

“I told them to cut that out,” Keith mutters, eyes once again on the headings, though by now their course is stabilized and there’s no need for him to adjust. He clears his throat. “But me, punching a guy? That’s just sticking to my roots.” 

Shiro laughs. Keith’s offbeat humor is a rare, but wonderful treat when it does make an appearance. “I guess we both need to be on our best behavior now,” he concedes. 

“Nah,” Keith makes his point by laying on the speed and executing a maneuver that this shuttle shouldn’t, technically, be able to perform. Shiro’s never been nervous in the cockpit, but that doesn’t stop his heart from racing. 

  
  
  
  


  1. Coran 



With most of the crew still planetside, the decks of the Atlas are nearly deserted. Keith sets the shuttle down in one of the Atlas’ main hangars, but none of the usual landing crew come out to help them. Instead, the two of them perform the docking routine together— refueling and the standard cool-down maintenance. It’s soothing to listen to Keith’s hum as he works, flipping from screen to screen, resetting the shuttle’s various mechanisms. Shiro leaves the refrac line for later, and Keith teases him about being too important to do grunt work these days. (The refrac line is a pain, but Keith is right. Shiro shouldn’t leave it.) He gives Keith’s foot an affectionate kick for the teasing, more of a nudge than kick; when their boots thunk together, Keith grins at him, hooking his foot around Shiro’s ankle while they continue to work side-by-side. Working and talking like this has always felt comfortable with Keith. Even when he was a cadet, and more reserved, being with Keith has always been easy. Felt right. 

They’re just finishing up when they get the message that Hunk arrived back on the Atlas while they were away. Keith brightens at this— not quite as excited as he would be if his mom or dog were on board, but happy nonetheless— and convinces Shiro to shirk the virtual pile of work in his office in favor of going to see their friend. 

Of course, one thing becomes another, and, almost before he knows it, Shiro is sitting on the couch between Keith and Pidge, listening to a heated debate about which movie they should watch. Hunk, on the couch in front of them, has queued up a documentary about Mukgarian dance language (a very nuanced topic, as Shiro understands it), but his decision is quickly getting overturned. 

Shiro agrees with Hunk: a documentary is always a good choice. Keith votes for something loud and flashy with a lot of special effects. And, if Lance were here, that would probably be what they ended up watching. But since Lance is still planetside with Allura, Pidge is the next loudest. And she insists on sci-fi. 

(Also, worth noting: if Pidge was really salty, she would just change the movie to her choice, regardless of the popular vote. Shiro has seen her do it before.) 

“This is a classic, guys,” Pidge says. Text rolls across the screen, letting them know the year aboard the ship Nostromo. 

“Nice,” Keith approves. He gives Pidge a thumbs up across Shiro’s lap. 

Pidge tucks herself under Shiro’s prosthetic arm and Keith leans against Shiro’s other shoulder. Shiro’s not complaining— the Atlas mini-theater has comfortable seating. He crosses his legs at the ankles, leaning back further in the recliner. Keith is warm. 

Sigourney Weaver is doing her best to enforce a ship-wide quarantine and Shiro is trying to enforce his eyelids staying open, when Pidge abruptly pinches Shiro’s side. He jerks awake. “What?” he whispers, trying to pry her fingers away from his skin without disturbing Keith on his other side. Pidge pinches hard. And her little hands are cold. 

“Kitchen,” she mouths. And then she announces: “Me and Shiro are going to get snacks. You guys stay here.” 

“Popcorn!” Hunk raises his hand. “And space M&Ms!” 

Keith kicks the back of his chair. “Shh, dude, this part is good.” 

In the kitchen: 

Out of thin air, seemingly, Pidge produces a bag of popcorn. She sticks it in the microwave and pokes the popcorn button with enough force that Shiro wonders if it has offended her personally. 

“So I heard about the incident with Acxa this morning.” Pidge announces with no further pleasantries. 

Shiro tries to air on the side of patience: “Heard what?” 

Pidge ignores his efforts. She opens a cabinet that is supposed to house pots and pans. Shiro, one part aghast and two parts impressed, watches as she removes the false bottom out of the cabinet and pulls out a massive bag of M&Ms. The Holts and their contraband. “So, obviously, that supports our initial hypothesis. Which is good. But then we have the talk show host thing. I was thinking about counting Rebi’s creepy comment as a compliment, although it really wasn’t, just to have at least one more data point?” She pauses to take a breath, but does not notice the look on Shiro’s face. 

(Or rather, she does notice and instead decides to ignore him.) 

Popping a few M&Ms in her mouth, she pulls out her laptop from another cabinet. It is not supposed to have laptops in it. She begins to type. “Compliment or not, Keith’s reaction does seem consistent with his overarching character traits as was theorized in our initial assessment. What are your thoughts?” 

Shiro thinks it is probably some kind of space-miracle that he hasn’t developed a nervous twitch by now. It’s likely due to his body being a mass-manufactured-inhumanly-perfected clone of his actual body. But that’s a thought for another day. He rubs a hand across his temple. “Pidge. Is this really necessary?” 

She motions for him to hold out his hand for some M&Ms. And then pours a few into his palm. “My thoughts are that we need more data.” 

“Oh, hullo! Number one! Number five!” Coran, passing by the kitchenette in the officer’s barracks, happens to see them. He bounds inside. He appears to be wearing...a cape? And there are bells on his shoes? Also his hair is now blue. Remnants of the Odexalian photoshoot? Or just Coran being Coran?

“Coran! Woah-what-uh-” Shiro falters, not sure if he’s meant to mention the bright blue shade of Coran’s hair or not. His moustache is still orange. “How’s it,” Shiro decides to play it safe, “How’re you?” 

“What happened to your hair?” Pidge asks, flat. 

Coran prances, the bells on his shoes jingling as he moves around the kitchen-island, blue mane bouncing with each step. He strikes a pose. “Quite the statement, isn’t it!” Which doesn’t really answer the question. 

“Depends on the statement you’re trying to make,” Pidge mutters. She brightens. “Oh! Right! Coran, we could really use your input here.” 

Coran beams. Far too nimble, he hikes himself up to sit on the kitchen counter. “Of course, of course. Always happy to help. Some might say it’s my life’s work! I never—” 

“So it’s about Keith,” Pidge cuts him off. She tells him about the experiment while searching to find a bowl for the popcorn. Shiro could help her reach, but instead he crosses his arms and watches. He’s feeling petty.

In response to her summary, Coran declares: “How intriguing! Especially for Number one’s part in the matter. I was under the impression that it is customary human behavior to compliment one’s lover.” 

“Since when do any of us take part in ‘customary human behavior’?” Pidge asks (she got the popcorn bowl down just fine on her own, by the way),

At the same time that Shiro sputters, “Lover?” 

Coran thinks for a moment, his moustache trembling with the effort. “Soulmate, then? Beloved? Life partner?” 

“We’re just…” Shiro is begging them to listen to him, “Keith and I. We’re  _ just _ friends.” 

“Humans!” Coran announces out of nowhere. “Such tiny craniums and next to nothing inside! My!” 

“Why don’t we just go back to watching the movie?” Shiro asks, exhausted. “It’s been a long day.” 

Pidge and Coran share a look. Shiro suppresses a sigh. 

When they come back into the room, there are considerably fewer crewmembers alive aboard the Nostromo. Keith is leaning forward, elbows resting on top of the back of Hunk’s chair and his chin resting atop his elbows. 

Hunk has his hands over his eyes. “Why would you put this on and then leave me?!” 

“It’s not scary, it’s cool,” Keith retorts. He makes grabby hands for the chocolate, and stuffs a handful in his mouth without taking his eyes off the screen. When he finally spots Coran, he does a noticeable double-take. 

Shiro has an arm on the back of the couch as he sits back down next to Keith. 

Keith scoots back to lean against him again. He hisses close to Shiro’s ear: “What happened to Coran’s hair?” 

Shiro leans in, pressing his face close against Keith’s temple. In doing so, his arm loops around Keith’s shoulders, pulling Keith against his chest. “I’m not sure we want to know the full story.” 

Keith grins at him, their faces so close that Shiro can feel the apple of Keith’s cheek against his own. Shiro can’t help but smile back. He’s addicted to the feeling. 

“Ah yes, the Davidian Two-Bite-Killer.” Coran muses, perching next to Hunk. “As provocative as they are deadly! A lovely choice for a thriller film, though, I would note that the scale of the thing is a bit wonky. Why in the wild, they can grow to be as big as,” 

“Coran,” Hunk says, peeking out from behind his hands. “I  _ know _ you are not telling me that there is a chance I could run into an actual xenomorph. I  _ know _ you are not telling me that right now.” 

“Run into one?” Coran shakes his head. He continues, cheerfully, “Oh no, I daresay you’d see it long before that! And if you didn’t manage to see him, why, he’d certainly see you! You’d be dead before you could say Yellow Paladin!” 

Hunk moans. Keith takes the popcorn bowl away from Pidge and places it in Hunks lap. “Don’t worry,” he says with a brisque pat on Hunk’s shoulder. 

Coran watches the interaction with shrewd eyes. Shiro can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Keith, my boy!” 

Keith swivels to look at him. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are as enchanting as a Emullion emuur?” 

Keith blinks. “Not recently.” 

Coran claps. “Well! They ought to!” 

Jutting his chin out, Keith slowly turns back to the movie. “Ohhhkay.” 

A few moments later, Coran smacks his mouth obviously. When he has their attention, he says, with conviction: “In fact, Keith, should the two of us be faced with a Tingly Tenswatter at this very moment, I should think there’s no one better to tangle with!” 

_ What the fuck,  _ Keith’s expression clearly reads. “Are we…” he looks at Shiro. “Are we doing that? Later? Or something?” 

Shiro shakes his head. Pidge puts her face into her hands. Hunk looks like he wants to say something but also does not want to get involved, lest the situation take a turn for the worst. 

“You’ll not find a better man in sixteen galaxies!” Coran announces half an hour later. 

On the screen, the alien is very near to being sucked out an airlock. 

“Ripley is a woman,” Keith supplies helpfully. He pulls his legs up underneath him on the couch, getting more comfortable next to Shiro. They’ve already decided to put in the sequel when this one is over. Shiro doesn’t mind. Keith is clearly enjoying it, and it’s good to see him so relaxed. 

*

Shiro only realizes that he’s fallen asleep when he wakes up. 

The standard logo for the Atlas is rotating overhead on the holoscreen. The movie is over. Besides that gently spinning logo, the room is lit only by the auxiliary lights that run just above the baseboards. Everyone else has left. 

No, not everyone. 

Shiro blinks sleep out of his eyes and realizes that the warm weight crushing his left side is Keith. Shiro shifts, ever so slightly, and Keith’s head drops from against Shiro’s shoulder closer to his heart. The motion makes Keith’s hair unstick from Shiro’s neck, and it tickles. Shiro brushes it away, running his fingers through the crown of Keith’s hair and down, gentle enough not to pull, not to wake him. The silky strands part at the nape of his neck, revealing soft, smooth skin. Shiro strokes the line of his spine with the lightest touch. One of Keith’s hands is curled in the front of Shiro’s shirt— at the movement, Keith tightens his grip. He’s sound asleep. 

Taking care to jostle him as little as possible, Shiro carefully unpins his left arm from where it’s being crushed between Keith’s back and the couch. Holding him steady so as not to drop forward, Shiro leans towards the side table to retrieve the remote. It’s wedged between the cushions, but Shiro’s prosthetic has a decent reach. He clicks off the television. 

The room is still. Shiro’s internal clock tells him it must be after midnight. He touches the pulse point on the Altean arm and a small digital readout confirms it. He slumps back against the sofa as he was. Keith’s breathing is soft and even. Shiro’s slows to match. 

The third shift crew will have already been at their posts for some time, and there are plenty of crew who keep strange hours; elsewhere on the ship, there is certainly work to be done. Here, though. Here, it’s quiet. The room is still enough that Shiro can hear Keith’s gentle exhale, feel each slow breath as it fills his chest in a steady rhythm. Shiro lets his eyes fall shut again, lets his hand drop from Keith’s shoulder to his waist. Holding him close. Keith nuzzles closer, mouth parting, cheek pressed just under Shiro’s collarbone. 

They could stay like this. Someone (probably Hunk) laid a throw blanket over their waists. And the reclining loveseat in the mini-theater certainly wouldn’t be the worst place that Shiro or Keith has slept. Keith turns, getting settled, and nudges a thigh over Shiro’s leg. The contact, innocent as it is, sets Shiro’s body alight. Suddenly he’s hyper aware of all the places where Keith is pressed against him, all the ways in which their bodies fit together. 

He swallows, the click of his throat loud and obvious in the dark. 

This is dishonest. Shiro takes pride in the fact that he and Keith are close— Keith is so remarkable in so many ways, but he’s also still closed off to many people. Even now, he doesn’t let people in like he lets Shiro in. Shiro knows that. And, just as Shiro doesn’t take that for granted, he won’t take advantage of it either. Not even in a small way like holding him on the couch. Not even if he wants to. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, keeping his voice soft enough not to startle. “Keith.” He taps Keith lightly on the hip, then runs a hand up his back. “Keith, we fell asleep.” 

He can feel Keith wake up— the first thing he does is flex his hand, spreading his fingers wide over Shiro’s chest and then relaxing them. From there, the tension pulls back into his shoulders. He sits up on his elbow, looking down at Shiro. In the low light, his eyes don’t look exactly human. 

“Shiro,” he says, sleepy. The light rasp of his voice is lower, textured with sleep. He squeezes his eyes together, waking up. His brows pull together. “You okay?” 

“Besides the fact that the two of us have to be up in less than five hours,” Shiro says. “Keith, we should have gone to bed hours ago.” 

Keith doesn’t look worried. “C’mon, then,” he rises in one smooth motion, stretching his arms over his head as he does so. His shirt rides up, revealing the dark hair on his stomach, the smooth jut of his hip. He holds out an arm to Shiro. He smirks. 

“I forgot that old folks need their sleep,” he says, casual. 

Shiro grabs his hand and yanks him back down. It catches Keith by surprise, and he loses his footing, falling into Shiro’s chest. 

He yelps in a very un-Keith like way, and then that turns into a laugh. One that Shiro can feel, like this, with Keith on top of him, their limbs all tangled together. 

“Who’s old,” Shiro says, laughing along with him. He presses the words into Keith’s neck, grinning, holding Keith at the waist now, giving him a little shake. “You little shit,” 

Keith just laughs, ducking his face into Shiro’s neck. Shiro can feel him smile, like before. Like he loves. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro, squeezing tight him in retaliation. It’s the sweetest punishment that Shiro’s ever received. 

Somehow they manage to get upright. They’re too loud, probably, as they pull each other down the hallway. When Shiro lays down in his own bed, the last thing he’s thinking of before he falls back asleep, is how good it is to feel Keith laugh against his chest. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  1. Lance



_ I’ve got to put a stop to this once and for all,  _ Shiro decides. 

He decides as much the next day, when the gentle lighting and the tinkling water are nowhere near calming enough to help center him. 

He woke up— meaning, when he actually woke up this morning, not when he woke up with Keith in his arms last night— he woke up with a ping from Pidge: 

<<<Coran’s compliments were indecipherable. We’ll have to throw that data out 

“She’s doing this just to spite me. She must be.” Shiro told the floor, half hanging out of his bed. Slumped over after reading the message. All the blood was rushing to his head, and his brain was already foggy from not getting enough sleep. Nothing he’s done stands out in his memory as terrible enough to incite Pidge’s ire, but who knows. 

Thus, he’s taking matters into his own hands: 

“Lance.” Shiro finds Lance on the training deck, near the free weights. He’s wearing a muscle tee that says  _ ‘this shirt had sleeves, but then I flexed,’  _ and doing approximately one rep for every two mirror selfies. 

“Shiro! Hotness! Now!” As soon as Shiro is in frame, Lance holds his arm up, angles his chin, pouts his lips, and snaps another selfie. 

Shiro gives him a look. “Really?” 

“Oh c’mon!” Lance huffs, turning on what Hunk has dubbed his  _ ten-thousand-mega-watt  _ smile. He punches Shiro in the abs, grinning. “Show it off!” 

Even this early, that smile is infectious. Shiro obliges: “You mean like this?” Casually, he holds up his human arm, angling it so that the muscle definition goes from toned to  _ chiseled _ . 

“Hell yeah!” Lance stands close, copying the pose. Shiro thinks they look ridiculous. He’s in sweats and a v-neck...not exactly photograph worthy. (Though...the short sleeves of the tee are  _ short _ , and  _ very _ tight around his bicep.) 

Satisfied, Lance turns the comm to show Shiro the picture. 

“Well it’s better than the one the Garrison used for my funeral,” Shiro deadpans. (That picture is currently hanging on the wall of his office. Not everyone gets the joke.) 

Lance is too distracted by his camera roll to respond; Shiro patiently waits until he looks up. “You done?” 

“Oh yeah, sorry!” Lance blinks up at him. “Whatcha need?” 

“I need your help.” 

Lance points to his own face, thin brows shooting upwards. His eyes go wide. “Huh? Me?” 

“Well, yeah.” Being a good leader means understanding what people need to hear; Shiro engages in some harmless ego stroking: “I know that if there’s anyone who can out-Pidge Pidge, it’s you, Lance.” 

Chest puffed out, Lance preens. “Well, I don’t wanna brag, buuuuut,” 

“It’s about Keith,” Shiro starts to explain. 

Lance deflates. He flings himself on the nearest bench. He’s pouting. “What about Keith?” 

Shiro gives the abridged version of the events of the past two days. Keith. Compliments. Pidge and Science. His hope is that Lance will say something to Keith, there will be no effect, and then they can all report back to Pidge that this entire thing is absurd. 

“Man.” Lance taps his fingers over his knees, deep in thought after Shiro finishes. “That’s wild. Who doesn’t like to hear nice things about themselves? And from their S.O. even? Keith is messed up.” 

“S.O.?” Shiro questions. 

“Significant other.” Lance says, as if this is obvious. “As in, you and Keith.” 

Why?

_ Why _ does everyone think that he and Keith are together?

Shiro grits his teeth. “Lance. Keith and I are not a couple.” 

“Oh? Really?” Lance looks genuinely surprised. “For real?” Lance blows out a breath. He looks like his world’s been rocked. He frowns off into the distance, apparently thinking hard. “Wow. I always figured that you guys have been bonking since, like, we started this thing. Maybe even before that. Huh.” 

“For the sake of my own sanity,” Shiro decides out loud, “I’m going to ignore everything you just said. And, if you could, leave me out of any future discussions of  _ bonking _ .” He reconsiders. “Actually, that’s an order.” 

Lance winces. “No talking about you and Keith bumping uglies, got it.” 

Shiro has to take a breath. Remind himself of his inner calm. It’s too early for this. 

“Lance. Can I depend on you to do this for me?” 

A smile starts to make its way across Lance’s mouth. He makes a fingergun with his hand, presses the ‘v’ into his chin, brows waggling. “So. Being nice to Keith. Alright. What’s in it for me?” 

“Besides the fact that I am asking you to do this as your commanding officer? And that Keith, I know for a fact, has, on several occasions, met your concerns with sincerity and kindness? Because, despite the fact that you continuously pick fights with him, he values you as a teammate and a friend? Besides that?” 

“Besides that,” Lance squeaks. 

Shiro came prepared. “The Atlas will make a stop at the nearest swap moon. I’ll ensure that the officers have at least three hours of personal time.” There's few things that Lance loves more than shopping. 

“You got yourself a deal, Shirogane!”

At Shiro’s expression, Lance backtracks: “I mean, Shiro, yeah, of course, I’ll do it. You bet. No prob. You can count on Lancey-Lance. I promise!” 

Shiro has the distinct feeling that he might come to regret this particular arrangement. 

*

Actually, 

The regret is almost instantaneous: 

This morning, Shiro and Keith have already warmed up and gone a couple of light rounds on the sparring mat. Shiro talked to Lance on his way to grab a couple of hydration pouches for them, before he and Keith moved into the bulk of their workout. After their deal, Lance follows him back on his way to Keith. 

“Lance, hey,” Keith nods at him. He’s been taping up his hands in preparation for heavier sparring. He checks the fit, making a fist. 

Shiro winces when Lance doesn’t respond. Or, doesn’t respond normally. 

Instead, he marches up to Keith. Very close, toe-to-toe, right in his face. Lance takes a breath. He places his hand on Keith’s cheek. Cupping it softly. 

Startled, Keith’s hands go lax at his side. 

Lance wets his lips. He stares deep into Keith’s face. 

And he tells Keith: 

"You have beautiful eyes." 

Keith grabs his wrist and twists his arm behind his back, pushing Lance face forward with his other hand between Lance's shoulder blades. 

“Hey man! Hands off the merchandise!!” Lance yelps. He starts flailing, but Keith just tightens his grip, and Lance is no closer to being free. 

“What,” Keith leans forward, hisses into Lance’s ear, “Are you doing?” 

“Complimenting your eyes!!” 

Keith shakes him a little bit, “Why!” 

“Because they're beautiful!!” 

“That's weird!” 

“Why?!” Lance turns his head to glare at Keith, who is, by this point, almost draped over his back. Very close to putting Lance into a true sleeper hold. “No it’s not!” 

Keith sputters. 

Typically, Lance ranges from endearing (in a younger brother kind of way) to outright obnoxious. But, these days, he’s usually well behaved. He’s grown up a lot since they first started this journey. Shiro knows that maturity was more or less forced upon him— but that doesn’t mean that Lance doesn’t still have his moments. Even so, it’s been a long time since Shiro’s seen Keith _ this _ pissed at him. 

“No homo, dude!” Lance is digging himself deeper, running his mouth while still caught in Keith’s hold. “It's totally normal for a couple of bros to love each other’s eyes. No big, man. S’not like I came over here gushing about your ass!! Which, by the way, I’ve always thought is tight as fuck, I need you to know th—”

Keith drops his grip and Lance falls, face first, into the training mat. 

“Nope,” Keith declares, “Nope! Nuh uh. I don’t know what this is but I’m not doing it!” 

He looks at Shiro, face pinched in anger. “I’m going,” he waves, “Over there!” he waves again, “To do whatever!” 

Lance mutters something. 

“And when I come back,” Keith says, throwing his hands up in Lance’s general direction, “You’re going to be gone. And me and Shiro can get back to our workout. Lance!” 

He stomps off, fuming. 

“This wasn’t worth a trip to Sephora,” Lance tells Shiro, as soon as Keith is out of earshot. Standing up, he rubs his wrist where Keith was gripping it. 

“None of this gets back to Pidge,” Shiro reminds him, clapping him on the back. “You did great, Lance. Just remember: Keith responded totally normally.” 

Lance gives him a withering look. “Riiight. Yeah.” 

“And Lance.” Shiro puts on his ‘commanding officer’ voice. “That was a basic hammerlock hold. Very escapable. Meet me back here at 19:00 hours. We’ll go over standard self defense technique and how to evade certain scenarios.” He smiles. “Just as a refresh.” 

“Gee. Thaaaanks.” Lance grumbles something about homework and bargains and being tricked. He stalks off. 

  
  
  
  


+1. Shiro 

“In conclusion,” Shiro carefully draws a line through the names on the whiteboard, “Keith, I will admit, is, at times, adverse to hearing certain things about himself.” He says the magic words: “Pidge you were right.” 

Pidge sits up a little straighter at her lab bench. 

“However,” Shiro sets the marker down. Crosses his arms. “Just because someone is uncomfortable with something, does not mean that you should force them to deal with it for the sake of science, Pidge. You know better than this.” 

Shutting her notebook with a wince, Pidge looks to the side, appropriately chastised. 

“There will be no more experiments on Keith. No more teasing. Tell Matt too.” Shiro’s tone leaves no room for debate. He softens it: “But, I know you’re a good friend. Maybe this is something that Keith needs to address. Maybe I need to talk to him about it. So, thank you, for bringing it up. Even if your methodology is,” Shiro hedges, “Direct. I know you have Keith’s best interests at heart.” 

Behind him, the door to the lab opens. 

“Pidge, you need to stop experimenting on Shiro,” Keith hollers in a rush as he walks in. “He’s—” 

Keith stops when he sees Shiro. “Uh.” He blinks. “Hi, Shiro?” 

“Keith?” Shiro takes one look at Keith’s red face and knows something is wrong. He learned early on in their relationship that Keith cannot lie. Even if he’s just trying to bluff, it all comes out in his face. “What’s going on?” 

Keith’s shoulders shoot up to his ears and his face blooms brighter. “Nothing. Just walking. Into the lab. Shouting about experiments.” 

“I can explain!” Pidge says, popping off the lab stool. She takes a step back, likely to make a quick escape. 

“Explain.” Shiro says. 

Pidge adjusts her glasses. “Well.” 

Apparently unable to take the tension, Keith blurts: “Pidge got the idea that you would deny that we were dating no matter what the circumstances were so she set up all these weird scenarios to have people talk to you about it and _ I’m sorry Shiro _ I should’ve put a stop to it a week ago!” 

“Dating?” Shiro repeats, faint. “Keith? Me and you?” 

Keith looks some combination of frustrated and miserable. He nods. 

Pidge winces. “Yep. So, that about wraps it up! I think I’ll just…” 

“Don’t!” Shiro moves without thinking. His brain is still trying to process the past few seconds. Keith. And him. Dating. Keith said that. But…

As he moves back, he happens to bump into one of the many shelves that stand between the work benches in the Holt labs. It’s a wire set of shelves, made to be wheeled around, more for convenience and ease of use than stability. As Shiro bumps into it, the shelf slides across the floor. Something wobbles on the top shelf, above his head. 

“Shiro!” Keith darts forward, shoving Shiro out of the way. “Look out!” 

A container of purple goop clinks precariously on the edge. And then it drops, 

Directly onto Keith. 

Keith ducks, 

Shiro shouts, 

Pidge covers her eyes. 

The container, just slightly larger than Shiro’s palm, clatters across the floor. Spewing its contents all the while. 

There is purple  _ everywhere _ : the container spun as it hit the linoleum, leaving a spiral of splatter several feet around the crash site. And Keith at the center. Purple liquid is dripping down his back, completely coating his shoulder, flecked over his arm, neck, face. 

“Keith!” 

“Geh.” Keith sticks out his tongue, attempting to wipe some of the mess from his neck. He ends up just spreading it around. “Pidge, what is this?” 

“Cleaning solvent,” Pidge replies. “....From PCSK-9. It’s safe...probably.” 

“Probably?” Shiro repeats. His voice doesn’t betray the hysterics, but it's only because he has had a lot of practice. 

“It’s non-toxic.” Pidge reassures. “Mostly likely,” she mutters. “I’ll...go get Matt! And a mop. And...maybe Coran, too.” And with that, she escapes. 

“Keith, are you alright?” Shiro turns to him, more concerned with Keith’s well being than anything else.

Keith takes stock of his overall state. “I don’t think I’m being actively digested or anything. So. Not the worst junk I’ve had on me.” With a shrug, he reaches over his back and pulls his shirt over his head. Using the balled up material, he wipes down his neck and arm. “All good,” he reports. He tosses the material towards a bin against the wall, and, because he’s Keith, it disappears into the bin with perfect accuracy. 

And he smiles at Shiro. “You okay?” 

Keith is looking up at Shiro. He was only wearing the tee shirt so his chest is now bare— Shiro’s gaze dips down to the pretty hollow of his throat, the jut of his collarbones. There’s a scar over his right shoulder, the end of it marking the faintest suggestion of chest hair. 

Shiro can’t think. 

“We’re dating?” he says weakly. He unclasps the top of his uniform jacket, fingers pulling the buttons through the holes on auto-pilot. Once he has it off, he drapes his jacket over Keith’s shoulders. 

Keith’s expression darkens. “Pidge is Pidge. You know how she is.” Even now, Shiro’s coat is far too big for him. It slips off his shoulder and Shiro sees the plush pink of Keith’s nipple peeking through the wide opening made for Shiro’s arm port.  _ Holy fuck.  _

“Keith...you’re.” Shiro laughs. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience (and he would know). “You’re going to have to give me a yes or no answer on this one.” 

“Yes?” Keith thinks about it for a moment and then repeats the word with more confidence. “Yes.” 

“We, as in us.” Shiro licks his lips. “Dating. As in. Romantically. Now.” Shiro grimaces. Has he missed something huge? Is this reality? “Did you…” Left in just his white undershirt, Shiro should not be sweating this much. The lab is climate controlled. The entire ship is climate controlled. “Did you not know either?” 

Keith takes a step forward and then, realizing that there’s purple goop all over the floor, makes a face. “Shiro. I love you. And, I know, uh. That you love me. And,” he holds up a hand, “We spend a lot of time together. So. Dating?” 

Shiro blinks. His mouth is dry, but he manages: “When did it start?” 

Frowning at somewhere behind Shiro, Keith’s mouth forms a pout. Shiro has the thought that he’s infinitely kissable. He’s never been more kissable then this exact moment. He will only continue to become more kissable with every passing second. 

“Not sure.” Keith concludes. His eyes slide back to Shiro and he smiles, sweet. Almost shy. All Keith. “We can call this Day 0, if you want.” 

Shiro’s never wanted anything more. He moves forward, offering Keith a hand so he doesn’t slip in all the mess. “And where do we go from here?” he asks, too giddy to be completely serious. 

Keith picks up on the tease in his voice. “My room,” he smirks. At Shiro’s expression, the smirk becomes a laugh. “I could use another shirt. And maybe a shower.” 

Squeezing his hand for the tease, Shiro pulls him in close. It’s nothing at all— the easiest thing he’s ever done— to find Keith’s mouth with his. To run the back of his knuckles against Keith’s jaw while he mouth parts, soft and hot. Shiro kisses him. Shiro kisses him like, easy, that until Keith’s hands are both splayed over his neck, his chest. And then he kisses him deeper, tasting the smile that he loves and all the sweetness there. 

He parts, ending the kiss as he straightens back up. He gets to see the way Keith’s eyes flutter open and how the edges of his mouth pull up, smiling. Keith pulls him back, hooking an arm around Shiro, pushing them forward, practically demanding that Shiro catch him around the waist, hold him as close as he can. Shiro does so, reveling in the feeling of Keith against his chest and his teeth playful at Shiro’s lips. 

Shiro wants to ask:  _ how did you know, Keith? How were you so sure? _ But, he supposes, as they leave the lab together— too loud again, and this time more likely to be spotted— it must be obvious. He falls in love with Keith every single day. 

They do eventually reach Keith’s room, but only just. Keith has him pressed to the inside of his door, and Shiro is too caught up in his mouth, and the smooth skin of Keith’s lower back to think of anything else. 

Keith is breathless when he says Shiro’s name, urging him for more. 

Shiro swipes over Keith’s mouth with his thumb, admiring how his lips look kissed. He smiles down at him. “You’re beautiful,” Shiro says. The compliment falls from his mouth effortlessly. An easy truth. 

Keith grins, accepting it like he does everything from Shiro: with complete certainty. He stands up on his toes to steal another kiss. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I feel like I’ve written a lot of these ‘everyone is aboard the atlas and everyone is fine and we have extremely low stakes rom com drama’ fics so hopefully no one is like, ‘really? This setting again’? LOL 
> 
> I hope that everyone had a super happy valentines day! thank you to the mods of the sheithlentines for putting everything together. this was my second year doing it and I think its great. 
> 
> if you feel like you need a lot of Keith love in your life, then [feel free to have a look around](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan/)


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